Game on!
This is pig on top of cow New York Greek diner style. I wish I had had a ruler with me so that I could provide a scale. It was slightly smaller than a sewer lid.
Colon sent a message to mouth:
“Noooooo! Don’t do it! You’ll kill us ALL!”
Mouth didn’t listen.
I belong to a local chapter of peta.
My chapter is: People Eating Tasty Animals.
Yum-yum.
Every time I see a trailer or commercial for Confessions of a Shopaholic my fists clench, my lips stretch taunt against my teeth and my eyes roll up into the top of my skull. I am so annoyed that I vibrate.
It’s the “hilarious” story of woman so obsessed with shoes, bags and clothing that she becomes crippled with credit card debt. The character is vapid and I pray that I’m raising my daughters to be more thoughtful human beings. I hope they’ll never need a pair Prada shoes to feed their self esteem.
Then I remind myself that it’s only a romantic comedy. Not a documentary. I’m not even the target audience for cryin’ out loud! I wondered why I was giving a friggin’ commercial for a movie so much power over me.
So I meditated on the REAL reason why I was getting so angry. The actual reason for your anger is rarely on the surface. You have to do a bit of digging. And I had a spark of clarity.
I spent many, many years dating in Manhattan and overall it was a pleasant experience. But in New York City, the woman depicted in Confessions of a Shopaholic actually exists. I’ve always done okay for myself financially but I am not wealthy and never will be. When I would date a Shopaholic and it became obvious that my income was modest and always would be, I was dumped. I am almost certainly better off for not having fallen in love with someone of that ilk, but a rejection is still a rejection.
But remember one thing don’t lose your head
To a woman that’ll spend your bread
Every Picture Tells a Story
Rod Stewart
Having been kicked repeatedly over a number of years for the same reason has left a sore spot.
So I won’t see that movie. It’ll only stir bad memories of feeling inadequate. Plus it was produced by Jerry Bruckheimer who’s a shithead bottom feeder and I don’t want to give him my $10 bucks.
A recent hit on my blog resulted from the following Google query from Osaka, Japan:
“heroin tickling”
On second thought, I don’t want to know.
I talked CB into seeing Looking for the Pony at the Vital Theatre Company with me.
I wanted to see it because a brilliant actress named J. Smith-Cameron was in it and the reviewer from The New York Times said:
When you’re in the audience at a play about breast cancer, you don’t expect to laugh a lot. Or to enjoy the sweet taste of victory. But…spontaneous applause tends to break out.
Do you know what was funny about this play? There was NOTHING funny about this play! Lord, it was heavy, heavy drama. A woman slowly dies of breast cancer. It was mawkish and overwrought, but I’ll tell you what was good; the two lead actresses were committed to their roles.
During the Hallmark Hall of Fame death scene, the two leads were in tears and that’s a very hard thing to do. In movies, you can always use drops or multiple takes but there’s no hiding the truth in the theater. I’ve seen a ton of plays whereby a character is supposedly so overcome with emotion that they break down and cry. It rarely works. You can tell fake sobbing from the balcony. These two, however, were deep into the moment and it was admirable.
I got a text from CB later that night:
That play was really just the staged version of Beaches. I knew I recognized it!
You got that right.
How do you score the cover of…
The New Republic
The Weekly Standard
The National Review
Foreign Press
Sister
Business Week
Entertainment Weekly
Newsweek
Newsweek (special issue)
Time
People
InStyle
Wine Enthusiast
Life (special issue)
Time (special issue)
…all in the same week?
Easy.
You replace The Most Hated Man on the Planet as Chief Executive Officer in the Oval Office.
Exile on Pain Street 